


Destination Unknown

by TheWillowBends



Category: Lucifer (TV)
Genre: Drabble Collection, F/M, M/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-02
Updated: 2019-11-19
Packaged: 2020-04-06 07:07:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 3,917
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19057723
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheWillowBends/pseuds/TheWillowBends
Summary: All the spaces unseen.  Drabble collection, multiple characters/pairings, infrequently updated.





	1. Mazikeen/Lucifer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lucifer knows time on Earth is time stolen.

There is always a party to be had in Los Angeles; bacchanalia abounds from high rise to ghetto. It is a city with aspirations of the divine, and Lucifer knows how that feels looking up from the gutter, arms outstretched and grasping at nothing. The sky at night here is empty anyhow, and he has long stopped reaching. Lucifer grabs up what he can with two fists, greedy for the cup that runneth over, holds it tight to his breast in the places his Father cannot see.

His body aches where scar tissue is still forming, but he has suffered worse, and Maze does not tolerate his complaints besides. The hotel is seedy, but he has mired through worse, clawed out of deeper pits, none of which came with liquor this sweet. After they polish off the last of the whiskey, he sends her off for more, and because she has always been an exemplary example of her species, she returns with bottles and a Brittany and Bobby on hand. Lucifer enjoys the way the syllables of their names bounce on his tongue, rhythmic and slurred, and likes them even better when they come on his face, his eyes laughing with their desire.

Mazikeen watches keenly, appraising, awaiting her cue. Her breaths are shallow, muscles tensed, and because she has been so good - or maybe just because he wants to, because he desires it - he holds out his hand and startles her by getting her off twice, tongue and teeth and fingers. There is a question in her eyes when she goes down on him after, and he can feel the eyes of the room on him. Something in him itches for the choice, to push her off with a smirk and a promise, something in him wanting it, wanting that: the novelty of being able to say no to pleasure, the possibility of futures unknown and potential, awaiting his pursuit. Believing with certainty that there exists a place where it is possible for these things to be in his grasp.

(He knows better, though. Happiness is always fleeting, and pleasure doubly so. When he fucks her afterward, laughing breathlessly, fisting her hair, he tells her to enjoy it while she can - the ache in his shoulders a constant burn, the smell of sulfur never far, the taste of ash on their teeth. An anchor on his back, dragging him ever down, a dark and empty hollow hungry for his return.)


	2. Dan/Lucifer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dan and Lucifer are just the kind of assholes who deserve each other.

The Devil really never shuts the fuck up, Dan finds.

Not even backed into a corner of the evidence room, his hand shoved halfway down Dan's jeans. Lucifer crowds into his space, a delicious wall of hard muscle and Italian wool, the grin that cracks his face toothy and sharp. The hard edge of the work table bites into Dan's hip as he stumbles backwards, and Lucifer doesn't miss the opening, swooping in with carnal intent to kiss him hard, tongue and teeth and the taste of whiskey. It's absolutely filthy, the way this man kisses, slick and hungry, his teeth drawing out over his bottom lip, bringing forth the taste of iron and salt. He pulls back grinning, all cat and canary. It makes Dan want to punch him or come on his face.

"Detective," he purrs, "color me intrigued at this newfound turn of events. Never counted you one for the Devil's own, but needs must, I suppose!"

Groaning, Dan's hips buck involuntarily as Lucifer gets a hand around him because of course they do, the traitorous bastards. "Dude, you are _unbelievable_ \- " he starts, then breaks off as Lucifer exerts just the right amount of pressure, sending a wicked shiver up his spine, abs clenching hard. He gasps, rocking against a hand too big, too hot, and certainly better manicured than anything Chloe put to him.

_Don't think about Chloe,_ he thinks, and then, of course, promptly does to the exclusion of anything else, right up until Lucifer gets his other hand around to work on his own slacks, artfully unbuttoned in a way that made his stomach flip to observe. It made him groan, then sigh, then kick himself because _ChloeChloeChloeDanYouAbsoluteAsshole_ -

Lucifer hums, a sound as honeyed as his tongue, then places his thumb under the head of his cock, pressing firm and sweet. "Really, when I suggested switching roles for the day, I'd intended a wholly professional approach," he muses, "but I find this equally agreeable, if not improved by its spontaneity! We are well out of the skillet now, headed for the silver platter!" Then he twists his wrist at just the right angle, and Dan melts against him, reaching for him, because why the hell not? The situation could not be more fucked up if he tried.

Dan jerks off the Devil and thinks of his ex-wife with every flick of his wrist. He thinks of her kissing that asshole Pierce, fucking him, marrying him, and deluding herself every step of the way that it's what she wants. He will never understand it, he thinks, what Chloe sees in Lucifer. What Chloe ever saw in him. Because if there were a pair of assholes who deserved each other, it's them, not the least because they have managed to cock this all up for her again.

Speaking of.

His hips jerk in warning first with a shiver of pleasure that shoots through his nerve endings before exiting left and cutting jaggedly through his abdomen. Lucifer's grin curves against his neck, and he presses closer, a tongue running smooth and hot against his ear, and Dan can hear the question almost before it leaves his mouth. "Tell me, Daniel, what is it you truly desire?

Enough circuits are firing off and fizzling out that words elude him for the moment, but then he feels the full brunt of it, that rolling storm of _Luciferness_ that penetrates any defense, slips through the bars and past the gates, coaxing the words out of him, willing or not. "I want," he starts, then stops, licking his lips. The wanting is in him, myriad and heavy; he wants and he wants, things past and things future, Chloe and Charlotte and the wish for things impossible. He wants to fix this mess, wants to be better and do better, and he wants to wake up next to Charlotte and make her waffles in the morning, wants to be a man worth waking up to rather than the kind of asshole who spitefully trades handjobs with his ex-wife's secret flame in an evidence closet while she's less than twenty feet away.

But mostly, he thinks, he wants Lucifer to shut the fuck up.

"I want you," he says finally, "to use that goddamned mouth of yours to do anything but _talk_ for the next five minutes."

“Daniel," Lucifer practically moans in response, "That's bloody _brilliant_." And, of course, proceeds to go down on him in all the right ways.

(It doesn't fix a damn thing, of course, but it is the most satisfying two minutes of silence Dan has ever had in his life.)


	3. Lucifer/Chloe

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt from PandaintheStars: In a fashion similar to Dorian Gray, Lucifer's devil form records all physical injuries that have ever happened to him - from his initial fall from heaven and subsequent burning, to being shot in the hand, to being stabbed, etc.

His body is a record, of pain and of time.The hours and the years cut into his flesh and they do not abate; time rolls forward grimly, a stone with a cutting edge.Chloe can feel the fire of stars under his skin, the mountains and ridges of old cuts made by lighted blades.He is to her history and present, an earth formless and empty, a sky hungry for stars.

Chloe presses her hands on him, feeling the hard edges of him, the memory of pain along his back.  “This one?” she murmurs, touch light as a sparrow’s upon him.

“The war.  The holy war,” he clarifies, at her glance.  “My brother’s blade cuts deep.”

The next, she kisses recklessly, a cut that circles like an unformed noose along his neck.  “And this?”

“A hell-forged blade.One rebellion amongst many.”He sighs, a sound like falling stars.“Hell has neither patience nor mercy to spare.”

Her lips touch his shoulder, his neck.She draws a line with exquisite tenderness across flesh puckered with scar tissue, valleys formed in fire and ash.In the dark, her mouth finds his, a scarlet ribbon twined between.

She journeys the length of him, a traveler bereft of maps but distinct in purpose, her mind to horizons endless and unseen.He directs her like a compass with hands that are gentled, soothing; these hands have known bloodshed, she knows, have dealt pain.When she presses her mouth firmly against the ruin of his palm, he shudders with pleasure and shame.Her kiss is a pardon for both.

She finds the bullet wound on his leg, circles it with her finger, insolent and longing.“I did this,” she says with wonder, and he nods, his eyes finely threaded with gilded light at the pleasure of the knowledge.

“And this, you took for me,” she added, drawing her mouth against the clean sliver of a knife’s cut.

“I did,” he agreed.

His body is a record, and its pain is an elixir from which she drinks deeply, as if to consume it could generate alchemy of the flesh.  As if her arms could return him to wholeness, the sterile wonder of an angel’s countenance.

_I could never,_ she murmurs into his skin.These days she can barely recall the woman who thought answers could be found in God, like a phantom drawn further away with each breath, a spectre fading into time.

She works her way up, drags her lips over his jaw.The feel of his kiss is warm and intimate, something alloyed but true, traced to the root of earth and stars.When he holds her, she is lighter than air, more than ash and dust.

The place that holds his heart is scarred and pitted, torn and recast.Its wound runs deep.At last she presses her mouth against it, tasting its blood and iron.

“I did this,” she whispers, and her voice is hoarse with tears, with memory and shame.

“You did,” he murmurs, his lips on her brow. 

“But darling,” he whispers, the word weighty and secret, “you also did this.” And moves her hand over skin thorny but patched, over scars smoothed with time and love.  The stitches are crude and clumsy, but they hold.  They carry the prick of the needle but never draw blood, even with hands that have taken lives and hearts apart, and she presses his palm against her breast and the heart that beats for him.  

When he kisses her again, it is to the taste of her tears and the shape of her name.Pressed against him in the dark,they form a whole.


	4. Chloe/Marcus

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chloe knows a good thing when she sees it.

Chloe fucks her boss for the first time on her living room couch at 10p.m. on a Saturday while Trixie is at a friend's house. The night was warm, the stars hidden under clouds, and she had stood at her porch feeling the weight of the necklace in her pocket and said _why don't you come in_ and he had laughed and said _why don't I_ and things progressed from there. It's the right time, she thinks; they are adults, after all, and she is thirty-eight year old, divorced mother of a child. No need to beat around the bush or sneak around about these things, not at all.

The sex is good, which it should be, enough that they do it twice, but what makes it better, she thinks, is that it is over with. The deed is done, and there is no turning back. Book written, letter sent, story closed. If asked, she will not stumble and stutter and say _we aren't even there yet_ because they went there, and it was good, really good, she thinks. Maybe not something you bang on about in an interrogation room two months later - But. Good.

Marcus is not a cuddler, but she finds that suits her just fine. The age of rose-tinted glasses is over for her. This is a sure thing, a stable thing, and most importantly, he is here, a solid weight at her side as she squirms the rest of the way out of her jeans and shrugs off her shirt. He doesn't even complain as they trudge up the stairs to her bedroom when she tells him he will have to leave by nine tomorrow because that's when Trixie will be getting home, even though it is possibly the most thirty-eight year old boring mom thing she can possibly think to say.

Instead, he laughs, and cracks a joke about needing an alibi. Something something about another beach murder. And she laughs because not only did she get laid but she got it good with a man who will walk into the office with her tomorrow and smile at her over coffee that she won't have to worry is spiked with whiskey. She will sit at her desk and glow with that happy, warm feeling of having him nearby and knowing he isn't going anywhere, anytime soon.

There is some sorting out when they crawl under the covers. She hasn't shared a bed with anybody in a long time, has forgotten the way the limbs need arranged and shifted and organized until things are tolerable, and there is the fact that the sheets probably have not been changed in an embarrassingly long number of weeks, but it is fine. It is great, even, because he places a hand at her back when he feels her tense, leans over and whispers _I said I was all in, Decker, don't worry_ , and the feel of his palm warms her as she drifts off to sleep.

When she wakes up hours later, his hands are gone from her, and she panics, but when she rolls over he is still there, collapsed in on himself like a black hole, an unknown space in her bed. It takes her a second to adjust, her body relaxing, and then she sighs and slides out from under the covers. She sits at the end of the bed, her face in her hands, awake and she doesn't know why. Her phone sits silent on the nightstand, and when she clicks it on, the clock reads two in the morning, and she has no text messages, not that she should expect any at this hour. Too late or too early to be sensibly sleepless, she tells herself, and really, she should crawl back under the covers and try this again, but something stops her, she can't, so she gets up and walks to the window, looks out into the warm L. A. night and everything it offers.

The stars are out now, and they are beautiful, as rare as the diamonds they emulate in a city sky. The clouds have dispersed, and that feels like a sign, a good one, something she shouldn't cast aside looking into the dark for things that can't be seen. She takes a deep breath and holds it, long and hard enough that it feels like a knot in her chest, nothing refreshing but necessary, like water after a drought or the catharsis of tears. She lets it out slowly, making herself feel the soothing way her body expels the air, all that leftover poison, the necessary waste of survival.

She lingers long enough for the clock to strike three, the night to feel heavy and worn on her shoulders. Eventually, she turns back to the bed, fiddles with the covers, slips off her socks. Closes her eyes and tries to sleep.

She dreams of nothing.


	5. Cain/Chloe

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chloe is the garden of good and evil, of all heavenly delights.

If Cain is thankful for anything, it's that Chloe Decker is beautiful. Lucifer is many things, but among them is admittedly that he is a man of taste. So when he fucks her, it falls in the decidedly abbreviated column of good shit that he has encountered in his life, and he can hardly call it work.

She's a laughing, breathless thing underneath him, especially when he goes down on her the way he has learned over and over again makes women crumble. He kisses his way up her chest, bites her throat, hard enough that she will show up the office tomorrow wearing a very misplaced scarf in a hot L.A. summer, then kisses her hotly, all tongue and teeth.

"Marcus," she gasps against his lips, and he grins, slipping a hand down between them, touching her, pressing inside. She groans and arches, and when he pushes into her finally, she cries out, ecstatic and electric, enough that he would think it a whore's deceit if it wasn't for the months he had spent by her side on cases, watched the way she hid her heart beneath layers of sarcasm and exasperation. They don't come together, exactly, but close enough that it feels like a promise, like a blessing he's coaxed out of the earth himself, grown up like a wheat stalk God let out of His sight in disdain.

Afterwards, she lies with him and tells him she's glad. They waited long enough, she insists, twisting and turning around corners, catering to the emotions of other parties. She never says a name, but he knows well enough who, feels its shape in the air, and he kisses her hard to shut her up, tickles her belly, then shoves her over for another go at it. Things are better this way, without words to trip over, without doors left open for others to walk in and take this away.

Finished for real now, she snuggles against him in the night, wanting to cuddle, and this surprises him, just a little, but he manages a good enough imitation of intimacy, his arms around her, _all in_ after all. She talks in a sleepy murmur about their weekend plans, how excited she is that she's found a man like him, and it makes him smile a little how easy it is to fool women like her into thinking this was their plan all along.

She's restless in the night, and he waits until he's sure she's truly settled, sometime in the early hours before the dawn, before he gets up, rummaging around the floor until he finds her pants. He can hear her breathing, slow and deep, her elegant and fine-boned features softened in sleep. One could say she was an angel, he thinks, if one was naïve enough to think angels were anything trustworthy or sweet.

In the moonlight, the bullet necklace is nothing special, a nonsense trinket from a man who has never appreciated anything, Cain thinks. Another son rejected by the Father, but one pathetic enough to think forgiveness was anything worth fighting for, who thinks love is something patient and kind, something given, rather than a seed planted and coaxed surely from the soil with the right work, the right words, then harvested when ready. Dropping it on the floor, he kicks it under the bed, hard enough that it skitters with satisfying speed, lost now with left socks and quarters and dust bunnies.

Satisfied, he returns to bed, curling in on himself, close enough to warm her, even runs his hand over her helplessly, his chest tightening at the sight of her, a miracle God gave so carelessly, waiting to be grabbed up by one willing. He presses his nose to her hair, breathes in. She smells like sweat and sex, but underneath there is something earthy, even floral, a whole garden of delights waiting just beyond the gate.


	6. Chloe/Maze

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Maze barrels her way in, whether Chloe wants her to or not.

Chloe doesn't get the best night of her life, but Maze helps her get pretty close to it.

Her toes curl as Maze licks a strip across her belly, warm and slippery, presses an open mouthed kiss to her hip. The air is humid and stale, a hot summer that tires the mind and quickens the flesh. She giggles as her skin cools, tickles, rises up to meet the touch Maze bestows with impossible want and tenderness against her breast.

"You're drunk, Decker," she says, huffing out a laugh. Her fingers are insistent and pressing, slip beneath the hem of her jeans with audacity and daring. Humming, she undoes the button, sliding the zipper down; the sound is like a knife cutting the air, sudden and serious. It gives weight to the kiss pressed to her belly button. "Not that I'm complaining."

Chloe bucks a little under her touch, her smile dopey and clownish and altogether too fond. "Would it matter either way?" she asks a little breathlessly. Her clothing is too tight, her heart too small, for the feeling and want that wells up in her. Arching her hips, she lets Maze pull them off. The air kisses her after. She is already wet.

There is hunger in her friend's eyes when she looks up at her, her hands smoothing down her abdomen to find the ache of her.

She cannot for the life of her find the words or the rhyme or the reason for how they got here, how Maze slipped past all of her defensive ramparts, the locks and the gate, to stride into her room with dagger at hand. Maze comes to her bearing no gifts, no incense or myrrh, but there is vodka and tacos and cake, and she is addled beyond measure with fine wine and the spirit of things lost.

Maze wastes no time on pretenses. There are no tender words, no gentleness before her mouth finds her clit. She sucks with intent and precision, and her fingers follow shortly after, pushing into her slickly. Chloe moans, she writhes, she presses up helplessly; when Maze tells her roughly to play with her tits, she does so, and neither does she complain when her finger curl up, finding the place inside her that makes her toes curls and breath whine out of her. She comes hard enough to see stars.

Her inexperience shows when she attempts to reciprocate, but Maze is surprisingly patient in this, even as she rolls her eyes. She guides Chloe's hands, shows the right places to touch - Not so different now, eh Decker? - and kisses her hard, mouth wet and slick with the taste of her come, riding the feel of her touch to her own orgasm, one louder, crasser, decidedly more _Maze_.

Afterwards, they lay together, not quite touching, but close enough to coax a shared heat from the both of them. Chloe breaths deep and clean, tries not to think about all the way she never thought this would happen. Tries not to think of Lucifer, so far away as to be dead but ever close to her heart, a knife under her ribs, a constant pain. She sighs, so sad and so lost, guilty at the brush of skin warm and _there_ , a pleasure that is real and concrete.

Eventually, Maze squirms, as if discomforted, but it only brings her close. She doesn't quite look at Chloe when she speaks, but she feels the weight of her attention anyway, the heft of her words.

"He wouldn't want you to be unhappy, you know. You're just wasting the time you're given thinking that."

"I know," she says quietly.

She leans over and kisses Maze, so gentle even time forgets to take it. When she pulls away, they are both a little breathless.

"I guess you're going to have to help me with that," she whispers.

They figure it out.


End file.
